


Waste Heat

by anomieow



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Cock Warming, Dirty Talk, Impotence, M/M, Mutineer Era (The Terror), Oh my god they were tentmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29367993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow
Summary: Even in the liminal slipstream between sleep and consciousness, Armitage can feel the heft and dozing heat of Diggle’s body and wiggles into it. He’s been dreaming of a cave, of turning over stones with trembling, cold-stiffened fingers. But Diggle’s warm and lets him into his arms, snuffles in his sleep. Just a few more minutes, though he knows Hickey will be in to wake them soon, trailed by Tozer, who these days looks more like a sketched likeness of the man than the man himself. Diggle pulls Armitage closer, close enough that the soft, sour heat of his breath warms his brow.
Relationships: John Diggle/Thomas Armitage
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Waste Heat

Even in the liminal slipstream between sleep and consciousness, Armitage can feel the heft and dozing heat of Diggle’s body and wiggles into it. He’s been dreaming of a cave, of turning over stones with trembling, cold-stiffened fingers. But Diggle’s warm and lets him into his arms, snuffles in his sleep. Just a few more minutes, though he knows Hickey will be in to wake them soon, trailed by Tozer, who these days looks more like a sketched likeness of the man than the man himself. Diggle pulls Armitage closer, close enough that the soft, sour heat of his breath warms his brow. 

“Will you ever love anyone else?” Diggle had asked him the night before in a hoarse whisper. He always felt talkative after—whatever it was they did, the blandly handsome, thick-set cook nestling his soft prick into Armitage’s cupped hand as he frigged him, kissed him. Good with his hands, he was, and Armitage loved the feeling of the other man’s quiescent cock in his own palm, like he was holding something fragile and vital. 

Armitage had felt his face go slack and uncertain, said nothing.

“I don’t mean me, stupid,” Diggle said. “Just, I’d not go all pup-eyed over someone didn’t love me back. Embarrasses me to watch you do it.” 

Armitage had sat up on his elbow and given Diggle a long, careful look.

“Time was, you’d have turned my head, John.”

“Ah.” A tone of faint, surprised pleasure. “Well, I’d have broke your heart on purpose at least.”

“Kind of you.”

“Least I can do for such a pretty lad.” And they’d nestled in and slept.

Now Armitage clutches at the last receding traces of sleep, but knows he’s fully awake. There’s nothing for it. They’ll rise, eat as little as they can of that poisonous tinned mash before harnessing themselves like oxen to haul. Diggle, a plump man before all of this, still has a bit of belly left and Tommy cups it now with his hands, presses, sighs. Covetousness, affection: can’t tell the two apart. Hunger’s two faces. _Greedy boy,_ his mother used to call him. _Can’t but have something before you’re wanting something else._ He slides Diggle’s shirt up over his gut and presses his lips to it, parting them a little like he aims to drink the warmth in. Slowly he moves his mouth down the sloped curve of it toward his crotch.

“Can’t say I mind,” Diggle rasps from above him, “but what business do you have down there?”

Armitage glances up, shrugs. “I just want to—hold it in my mouth a bit. Even if you can’t—”

“By God, I can try. You’ll not be wanting to nip it off, now?” But he’s already wiggling his smallclothes down a bit so Armitage can get at his prick and lift it onto his tongue, close his lips around it. He shuts his eyes and breathes in the smell of him, vinegar and broth and salt. 

“Prettiest mouth by far to ever touch the thing,” Diggle says, stroking Armitage’s hair. “And there never was nothing quite so nice as a cocksucking. Shame.” 

Armitage looks up at him, makes a show of sucking at the thing as he takes his own cock out. 

“Jesus,” Diggle sighs with a good-natured roll of his eyes. “Where were you when I coulda still made good use of you? Little blue-eyed cocksucker like yourself.”

Armitage runs his thumb over his own fattening tip and takes his mouth off long enough to ask, “And what would you have done to me?”

“This, I imagine—‘cept you’d’ve had a bit more to chew on. And maybe found out if that cunt of yours is as warm as your mouth.”

Armitage twirls his tongue around Diggle’s soft prick. It’s a little heavier now, spongier: doing it’s sad damnedest to rise to the occasion. He doesn’t care if it does, doesn’t expect it to. He feels held here, cared-for; he feels all this aimless want of his reflected back at him.

“Mighta felt for you a bit,” Diggle says, sounding surprised to hear himself say it.

Armitage pulls his mouth off and nuzzles his cheek against him, closes his eyes. What he’d told him the night before was true: before he laid eyes on Tozer, Diggle might’ve drawn his eye. He liked those barrel-bellied men, all laughter and appetite and salty wit. He wishes he loved him now, wishes he had loved him. Wishes he’d been able to taste him in his prime, take him into his body, wring him out til he collapsed panting and sweating onto him. It might have been nice.

But suddenly the flap of the tent is flung open and there he is, there’s Sol, light flooding in around his tangled curls, eclipsing the contours of his face.


End file.
